


Sweat it Out

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:17:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even at their most exhausted they have each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat it Out

**Author's Note:**

> for aomido week day 4: alternate universe.

The postgame meeting is relatively silent; after two-plus overtimes they’re all trying to save all of their energy for cleaning or too busy trying to rein in the leftover adrenaline to pay much attention. And after all, they won—fluke redirect off a defensive forward’s skate or not, it’s good and legal and they didn’t make it that far in the game itself on dumb luck. They’ll talk tomorrow at practice; Coach reminds them that they’ll be meeting in the hotel lobby and Aomine tunes the rest out, running his hands through his sweaty, too-long helmet hair. It’s only the second round but he’s already regretting deciding to do this no-shave and no-haircut thing. He always regrets it, but every year he goes along with it anyway; as traditions and superstitions go (especially among his fellow hockey players) it’s not the worst or the most outlandish. 

Finally, Coach is done; other players shuffle off to the showers or stand at their lockers, slowly taking off their equipment piece by piece. Midorima’s making his way to the equipment room as usual, skates slung over his shoulder like a kid coming back from late-night pond hockey. Aomine tosses his jersey to the bottom of the locker, debating whether to follow him or not. It might take extra time, but they’re about to let the reporters in and Aomine would really rather not talk to them right now. He picks up his own skates, almost falling with how unused he is to walking on the solid ground before righting himself and trudging off. 

Midorima looks up when Aomine comes in; he’s sharpening his skates on the machine while the equipment manager looks on.

“Can’t you do it tomorrow?” Aomine says.

Midorima pretends not to hear him. Aomine rolls his eyes at the equipment manager, and she shrugs. It’s true that both of them combined can’t stop Midorima when he’s hell-bent on something, especially when it concerns his ridiculous rituals. Midorima’s probably the most superstitious person Aomine’s met, goalies included, and while Aomine doesn’t believe in fate, Midorima and hockey might be the closest thing he’s seen to a predetermined match for that reason alone.

Midorima holds up his skate to the light. “I told you it’s bad luck to sharpen my skates unless it’s right after a game.”

“So use your other skates for the next one,” says Aomine, half-yawning.

“Sharpen them after next game or something.”

“That would be sloppy. What if I step on something in my other skates?”

Aomine rolls his eyes again. “One exception won’t kill you.”

Midorima sniffs and turns back to the machine with his other skate. Aomine sighs and begins to take off his shoulder pads—they, like everything else attached to him, smell too strongly of sweat and the game; he wants to free himself for just a few hours. The equipment manager picks it up as soon as he lays it down, tossing it in the appropriate bag.

“Thank you,” Aomine murmurs—one less thing to worry about. 

She grins. “Thank you for scoring that tying goal. You know how much I’m making in overtime pay?”

Aomine laughs, wiping more sweat off his face with his sleeve. Midorima’s scowling at the machine as he works; he hasn’t bothered to fix his helmet hair and he’s still in full uniform other than the skates (another ritual—he takes his pieces of gear and clothing off in precisely the same order, even when they’re all sweaty and sticking to his skin as if they’ve been dipped into the national maple syrup reserves). He squints at the second skate (sweat is clinging to his eyelashes, the one downside of their length and thickness), and Aomine musses up his hair.

“It’s good enough,” says Aomine, dragging his hand down the back of Midorima’s scalp. 

Midorima’s body shudders at the touch; he leans back into Aomine’s hand and sighs.

“You’re tired,” says Aomine. “Come on; let’s clean up and get back. We can sleep on the bus.”

“I need to take a closer look. And you need to talk to the press,” says Midorima.  
Aomine’s hand is still on the back of Midorima’s neck; he rubs the side and Midorima sighs again. 

“You had more ice time,” Midorima mutters.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not stiff,” says Aomine. 

Midorima replaces his skate guards, puts the pair on the table, and turns. Aomine doesn’t release his hand. Midorima reaches up to Aomine’s shoulder and squeezes—oh, does that feel good, as if Midorima’s sucked all the tension out with a syringe. He groans; the release has allowed the exhaustion to creep in further and make him realize exactly how much he wants a soft surface to lie on.

“Go,” says Midorima, voice steadier than the smooth rise of his shot. “I’ll be out soon.”

Aomine bends his head toward Midorima’s hand, brushing across the knuckles with his teeth. The equipment manager coughs, and Midorima flushes, fingers tensing. Aomine raises his eyebrows—in the scheme of things, when his muscles are screaming and they’re both covered in drying sweat and about to crash, someone else taking notice of their touches doesn’t matter much either way. These gestures are intimate, though, and Aomine doesn’t particularly want the equipment manager to be here right now (actually, he wouldn’t mind if she turned off the lights on the way out and he and Midorima could sleep on the table, grime and hockey gear and all). 

Midorima pulls away, not before tucking away a lock of Aomine’s hair, letting his warm fingertips linger on the shell of Aomine’s ear. Aomine takes the opportunity to lean in and kiss Midorima briefly. Midorima wrinkles his nose when Aomine pulls back.

“You really do need a shower.”

“Not like you don’t,” says Aomine. 

He turns and heads toward the door. The media’s going to be such a pain in the ass to deal with, but at least it’ll give Midorima time to finish his weird equipment routines before he showers, and they’ll get back on the bus together. That, at least, is something to look forward to—that and getting to play one more day, getting this series to a sixth game (even if it ends up longer than this one), stepping out on the ice with Midorima again.  


End file.
